


Glimpses of Northern Life

by emmiemac



Series: The Cleganes in Winterfell [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:57:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmiemac/pseuds/emmiemac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short vignettes inspired by the "sansan week" prompts in tumblr. They are not in chronological order but they are all of Sansa & Sandor's wished-for future life in the North.</p><p>DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on characters from George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Laughter

Sandor found Sansa in the darkened Godswood, standing with her back to him as the falling snow swirled around her and gathered on the shoulders of her fur-trimmed cloak and on her deep coppery hair.

“Little bird,” he rasped.

She turned her head slightly towards him and then ducked it down. Sandor saw her furtively wipe away a tear with the back of her hand. He stepped closer and put his large hands on her shoulders now.

“Why do you cry, little bird?” He spoke gently, knowing she had reason to cry. Winterfell still showed much of the losses and destruction of the fire that near destroyed it, the stronghold of the North and the seat of the Stark family for thousands of years; and though rubble had been cleaned away and materials stacked for rebuilding, the tumbled-down towers still marred the inner yards. Still, Sandor realized it was not just the buildings that brought on her melancholy: of her entire family, only the youngest, Rickon, had returned to Winterfell.

Sansa took a deep quavering breath before answering him.

“The last time…the last time it snowed like this, we were all here. Arya and Bran waited outside the keep with snowballs and threw them at me. We chased each other around, laughing. We ran here, into the Godswood, and Robb and Jon and even Theon…we were all throwing snow and sliding and falling and laughing. We laughed so hard it was hard to stand up. Then we heard father laughing,” she looked over her shoulder toward the entrance to the Godswood. “He had come to see why we were all screaming but we were really laughing…” She dropped her face in her hands.

Sandor squeezed her shoulders tightly. “I’m sorry, little bird,” he rasped low, “I’ve brought you home; but I can’t make it a home again for you.”

Sansa reached a slender gloved hand up to his where it rested on her shoulder. “Forgive me, Sandor,” she whispered. “I do not mean to be ungrateful-“

“Hit me,” he told her as he stepped out from behind her. “Make a snowball and hit me,” he told her. “Might be you’ll feel better then.”

Sana shook her head sadly. “That is kind, Sandor, but-“

“Do it, girl,” he growled.

Hesitantly and self-consciously, Sansa kneeled to scoop enough snow for a snowball. With a sigh, she reluctantly threw it with an underhanded toss that hit Sandor lightly in the chest. The snowball left a white mark on his wool tunic and slid lifelessly down his body to land in the snow at his feet.

“I’m sorry, Sandor,” she murmured.

“You’ve hardly tried, girl; here, it’s my turn.”

He packed himself a snowball and threw it harder. It hit Sansa in the shoulder and exploded with a mild  _piff_. Sansa stared at him sheepishly, her deep blue eyes still filled with sadness.

Sandor grunted grudgingly. “Not the same, is it? Might be we’re passed all that nonsense anyway. We’ve seen too much of the world, you and I, little bird.” He opened his hands in a show of defeat.

“Mayhaps you are right, Sandor; but I do love you for trying,” she told him sweetly.

“Hush, girl; mind your tongue where others might hear us,” he reminded her sternly. “Come now, they’ll be gathering in the hall for supper. Take my aaaaaaaahhh-“ Sandor slipped wildly on a patch of ice and fell into the snow with a thud that sent the crows and smaller birds in the branches of the remaining trees of the Godswood skyward in a sudden burst.

“Oh, oh no,” Sansa who had taken Sandor’s arm now teetered and flailed at the air before slipping and falling on top of him, her face and shoulders sprawled across his chest. They lay there momentarily as the last fluttering of wings could be heard far above them.

“Sandor, are you hurt?” Sansa asked as she pulled herself from him and sat back on her heels.

“No, buggering hells,” he groaned as he sat up now. “And you?”

Her hands covered her face again and he thought he heard her gasp. He reached for her hands now, alarmed.

“Little bird? Did I hurt you?” he asked anxiously.

When he pulled her hands away from her face, he saw she was laughing: she sputtered and erupted in delightful giggles. Sandor gave a low rumble of laughter in response.

“Oh, forgive me, Sandor,” she laughed, “but we must have looked so _funny_!”She giggled again, raising her hand to cover her mouth. Sandor pulled her hand away and kissed it impulsively.

“Aye, little bird, doubtless we did,” he replied, his heart warmed to hear her laughter again.

Sansa looked into his eyes and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him there in the Godswood. Sandor reluctantly pulled her arms away.

“Not here, little bird,” he murmured close to her face.

“Come to me tonight, Sandor,” she whispered, “please.”

He held her wrists tightly, looking hungrily into her eyes. He should not risk it, he knew he shouldn’t, but hearing her laughter, bright and sweet, made him long to hold her again.

He exhaled deeply, defeated. Her laughter had won him completely.

“Aye, little bird,” he rasped low, “tonight.”


	2. Hair

Sandor rode at the head of the column between the Blackfish and the Greatjon as they entered the gates of Winterfell. They were all grim and tired after another sortie into the Wolfswood against stragglers of the Bolton forces. The men they had caught had sworn that they were crofters and huntsmen searching for food, but when they were ordered stripped of their remaining rags and furs, their torsos had shown scars from steel. The Stark forces had shown them no mercy.

Sandor dismounted Stranger and began leading him to the stables: there still was not a groom at Winterfell who could handle his temperamental courser.

“My lord,” a woman’s voice called into the yard as he led Stranger away.

“Lord Clegane!”

Sandor turned to see Maege Mormont walking out of the keep.

“Buggering hells,” he answered her, “that’s me, isn’t it?” He had never expected to be made a lord, much less-

“It is, my lord,” she laughed good-naturedly, “and you’ve another title to get used to now: you’re a father, Clegane. Your Sansa’s been lying-in birthing while you were out killing.”

He stood stock-still and stared at her. “Sansa…she…”

“She’s had the babe and they’re both fine and fit, Clegane; and they’re waiting for you, so go on you big, rude aurochs, don’t keep them waiting.”

He handed her Strangers reins and walked away dumbly towards the keep. The She-Bear chuckled as he did.

“Have they a son?” the Blackfish murmured in his smokey voice.

“Nah, a little lady, she is,” she answered easily. Maege Mormont had birthed only girls and raised them to be strong fighters like herself and so never felt a loss for not having sons. “Help me unsaddle this beast of his,” she added as Stranger began tossing his head.

The fire in their chamber had been built high and burned brightly. Sandor dropped his cloak as soon as he entered. Sansa was still surrounded by women and so he hesitated until she looked up from the bundle in her arms and saw him.  She smiled gently.

“My lord,” she spoke low and sweet. “Would you leave us, please,” she asked the women who filed out with reserved smiles and nods to Sandor.

“Come,” she prompted him as he stepped forward, “come meet your daughter, Sandor.”

Sandor’s eyes widened and he looked down at the bundle and back to Sansa. She looked tired and weak but completely happy and her big blue eyes seemed to shine with love…for him. He thought she looked beautiful. He knelt by the bed and peered sternly but curiously at the small face wrapped in soft blankets and drew in his breath.

The tiny little face was red but perfectly formed: chin, lips, impossibly small nose, closed eyes and even faintly arched little eyebrows. His breath came out of him all at once now and he gulped.

“A daughter…” he began, overwhelmed. “Is she…she looks perfect…is she well?”

Sansa smiled again. “She’s perfectly well, Sandor; the women all say so. Will you hold her?”

Sandor looked down at his large hands as though he had never used them before and shook his head. “I don’t know-“

“Sit next to me,” she whispered, “hold out your arms, like I’m holding her, Sandor.”

She slipped their babe into his arms as he stared in soft awe and wonder. Their daughter squirmed slightly and tiny fingers poked out from the wrapped bundle.

“So small,” he breathed, “and pretty,” he almost laughed. “She’ll look like you, little bird.”

Sansa bit her lip now and shook her head faintly as she reached to push the blanket back from her daughter’s head, exposing the downy, dark tuft just above her forehead. She traced her fingertips gently over the small head.

“But look Sandor, she has your  _hair_.”


	3. Awkward

“Rickon.”

The boy looked up from his direwolf to see Winterfell’s master-at-arms standing over him.

“Sandor! Are we going to train now?” the boy asked eagerly.

Sandor looked more serious than usual, he thought, but he liked that the big, fierce scarred man took him seriously and taught him to fight and use weapons. All of Rickon’s brothers and his father were gone, even his mother was gone. They had all left him to go away, and only Sansa had come back, bringing the man as her protector. Rickon hoped the man would stay with them.

“Not today, my lord,” Sandor rasped grimly. “You needs come to the solar: your sister and I must speak with you.”

“Can Shaggy come?”

“Yes,” the man answered and turned away. Rickon thought the man said that Shaggy could rip his throat out but he wasn’t sure so he followed silently to the solar where Sansa sat in the sole chair near the hearth, clutching her hands in her lap. Their great-uncle, called the Blackfish, stood behind her looking stern as he gazed at Sansa from under heavy grey brows. Rickon thought Sansa had been crying. He ran to her.

“Sansa? Sister, what is wrong?”

Sansa put on a brave smile though she continued to twist her hands in her lap. Shaggydog sat at her feet and nudged her arm. She absently reached to pat him. 

“Rickon,” she began, “you know that you are heir to Winterfell, and that I only rule as warden until you come of age?”

Rickon’s forehead furrowed in distress; something was wrong. Was she leaving him?

“As Lord of Winterfell, Rickon, I would…would ask your leave…” Sansa stammered and blushed; she was never nervous in the Great Hall. “Rickon, Sandor Clegane and I…we would ask your leave to- to marry.”

Rickon’s smile nearly burst onto his small, dirty face. “You and Sandor? You’ll marry? He’ll be my brother for true and stay with us?” He was so happy he could barely stand still, but the others still looked serious, and Sansa dropped her eyes in her lap: her cheeks had turned red and she looked almost ashamed. Rickon was confused. Did they think he would refuse? He reached to pat Sansa’s hands in her lap.

“I give you leave, sister: you and Sandor may marry.” He spoke as importantly as he could but Sansa only nodded.

“We thank you, my lord,” the Blackfish replied swiftly and then looked across the solar to Sandor. “Best it’s done quickly then.”

“Aye,” Sandor replied flatly, “before it can be stopped,” he added darkly.

Sansa turned her eyes up to Sandor. “I’m so sorry, Sandor,” she whispered in a voice thick with near-tears.

Sandor hesitated and stepped closer to her. He reached to brush the backs of his fingers across her cheek.

“It’s alright, little bird,” he rasped low. “It will be alright.” Sansa placed her slender hand over his momentarily and nodded bravely again.

“I’ll fetch your cloak,” he told her now.

“The grey one, please, Sandor…it must be the grey one,” Sansa spoke anxiously.

Sandor’s mouth twitched into the barest smile of understanding. “Aye, little bird, the grey one,” he agreed and left the solar.

The Blackfish also stepped towards the door. “We’ll need witnesses naturally,” he looked down at Sansa.

“Lady Mormont,” she replied unhesitatingly, “and mayhaps Lord Umber?”

The Blackfish also showed a ghost of a smile. “The She-Bear and the Greatjon: I think we can count on them,” he spoke with resignation and Sansa again ducked her head.

“Why are you sad, Sansa? Don’t you want to marry Sandor?”

Sansa looked at him now with big blue eyes, eyes that were loving and sad at the same time.

“You look like mother,” he remembered suddenly.

Sansa brushed a tear away. “Do I? I wish she were here, Rickon; I wish they were all here. I love Sandor, Rickon but…it…it will not be a true lady’s wedding…this way.” She absently placed a hand from her lap on her belly.

“But you’re Lady of Winterfell, and I’ll be there, Sansa, and we’re family, and soon Sandor will be too.” He hesitated now. “Then you can have babies, Sansa, and there will be even more of us,” he suggested hopefully.

Sansa stared at him a moment before smiling sweetly. She still caressed her belly.

“Yes, Rickon, I’ll have babies.”

Sandor appeared in the doorway then with Sansa’s grey cloak.

“My lady, my lord: the Blackfish is waiting in the Godswood. It’s time,” he said.


	4. Fairy tale [of sorts, by Sandor]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "mythology/fairy tale"

“Stowy, Papa, stowy.”

“What’s that, girl?”

“She wants a story, Sandor,” Sansa told him as she put out the candles in their daughter’s chamber. Soon only the firelight from the hearth lit the room.

Sandor winced. “Your mother knows all the songs and stories, my girl: best you let her tell one.”

“Noooo.  _Papa_  stowy.”

“Oh, bugger,” he swore under his breath. But his daughter was waiting expectantly, her clear grey eyes looking at him in a way that always filled his heart so suddenly he sometimes needed to catch his breath. She always looked straight at him, never away; like his little bird once had. But he hadn’t always been gentle with the little bird…

“Many, many years ago,” he began, “there was a great tournament for a king. Lords and ladies and knights and squires came either to watch or to fight before their king…a great big, fat, loud king,” his daughter giggled, “who shouted and laughed and farted and fell down a lot.”

“Wit’ dwagons?”

“No, my girl, there were no dragons in the world then. They had not been reborn. But there were direwolves, and lions, and dogs and eagles and golden roses, and they all attended and some fought before there king in the joust. Horses galloped and whinnied and reared and lances and helms were shattered as stronger men unhorsed lesser men until only four remained: two big ugly, dark brothers and two fair young knights.”

Catya Clegane hung on her father’s words and gripped her wool blanket tighter in her small fist.

“The younger dark brother unseated a fair knight, the goodbrother of the king, and the loud king laughed to see his queen’s brother knocked off his horse and onto his…uh, onto the ground. Now he had only to watch to see who would win the next joust and face him in the end: his own mean brother, or the pretty knight of the flowers, who had given his favor to the most beautiful maiden there. His favor was a red rose, to match her red hair.”

“Like Mama hair!” Catya squeaked.

“Aye,” Sandor rasped softly, “just like your Mama’s hair.”

“Knight win, Papa?”

“Yes, my girl, the knight of the flowers unhorsed the big, dark, brutish older brother. But the older brother became so angry that he slew his own horse-“

Catya gasped.

“-then he turned his sword on the pretty knight of flowers and meant to kill him, but before he could strike the big, dark knight’s younger brother stepped in between him and the fair knight, protecting the boy from his brother’s terrible anger and instead turning it on himself. The brothers fought until the loud king ordered them stop. The fair knight of flowers raised the hand of the younger brother and declared him champion for saving his life.”

Catya smiled and clapped her hands. “Good.”

“And the beautiful red-haired maiden looked on the younger brother and saw that there were more important things than fair faces and pretty words; she saw a man who would protect her as he had protected the young knight. So she tossed aside her rose and covered the younger brother with kisses.”

“Dey mawy?” Catya asked eagerly.

Sandor turned to look at Sansa now, who answered for him.

“Yes, my sweetling: the younger brother and the maiden were married.”

“Happy?”

Sansa smiled gently. “Oh, yes: they were very happy.”

“Will you sleep now?” Sandor rasped firmly.

“I sweep, Papa,” Catya replied snuggling down under her furs. Sansa and Sandor both kissed her head and nodded goodnight to the nurse in the adjoining chamber.

In the hallway Sansa turned to Sandor.

“That was very sweet, my love,” she whispered, “but I thought you never lied,” she teased.

“Don’t,” he rasped assuredly, “never have; never will.”

“But Sandor, you told Catya I covered you with kisses-“

“Didn’t say you did it then, did I? Come to bed, little bird: you needs make an honest man of me.”

Sansa’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Well done, my love: you have given both your ladies a happy ending this night.”


	5. Seduce

_I don’t quite feel I got this one right but what the heck: any excuse for sansan kissy-kissy._

 

“Gods Sansa, I have never seen you stuff yourself with food this much. What has happened to my sister, the perfect lady?”

Sansa looked apologetically to her sister Arya even as she continued chewing the bite she had taken from a shiny red apple.

“You eat like Clegane did in the woods; he’s ruined you,” Arya noted caustically.

Sandor snorted from across the solar where he sat in his great armchair near open shutters. Spring had returned to Winterfell and the North and with it had come Arya who had been granted permission to visit from Queen Daenerys Targaryen’s court. She had travelled by ship and over land with an honor guard though all the Starks knew the queen’s soldiers were to ensure that Arya returned as promised. Still , the young queen had been generous, and Arya had arrived with a baggage train laden with stores and supplies for Winterfell.

“I’m sorry, Arya, but I can’t seem to help myself: it’s been so long since any of us has seen fresh fruit.” She took another bite as soon as she finished speaking.  She had already eaten two pears, and placed the cores in a covered bowl. Whatever gibes her younger sister might make, Sansa was still very much a lady.

Arya sneered. Sansa thought her sister was more like Sandor with her smirks and rough tongue and love of sparring.

“You’re not…with child again, are you?” Arya looked her sister over.

Sansa shook her head resignedly. The birth of their third child, named for her brother Robb, had very nearly cost her life and so the maester had insisted she take moon tea until such time as she healed completely and regained her strength. But Sansa wanted more children, and the reminder that she was not ready to have them yet left her disheartened. She set the half-eaten apple down on the desk.

“Are you finished with that, my lady?” Sandor rasped as he rose and crossed the room from where he had seen Sansa’s reaction.

“Mayhaps she’s finished with  _you_ ,” Arya scoffed.

“Arya! You mustn’t speak that way to my lord husband,” Sansa spoke with cold dignity.

Sandor knew his goodsister, the wolf-bitch, had as little use for decorum as he did. Instead he snatched up the apple and took a huge bite.

“You’re not done with me,” Sandor prompted with his mouth full, “are you, little bird?”

Sansa looked up into his eyes and shook her head docilely. He was standing closely over her.

“Huh,” he grunted. “Hungry?” He dropped his hand so that the apple was held before the lacings of his breeches. Though she flushed faintly Sansa nodded slightly and, keeping her eyes locked on his, leaned forward to take a delicate bite. Arya made a sound of disgust.

Sansa reached for the fruit platter, her eyes never leaving Sandor’s. “Grapes, my lord?” She held the cluster of wine-red grapes cradled in her hand, level with the low rounded neckline of her gown.

Sandor’s mouth twitched as he gazed down with heavy-lidded eyes. “Those look very sweet and ripe, my lady; might be I will accept your offer.” He began to kneel before her.

Arya pushed her chair back noisily. “I can’t watch this,” she muttered loudly. “Really, Sansa, what would Septa Mordane say? I should have worn Needle this night.” She hurried from the solar.

Sansa giggled softly as Sandor leaned in to take a grape in his teeth.

“She never cared before what our Septa thought,” she whispered to Sandor.

He nuzzled her collarbone as he chewed his grape. “The wolf-bitch would call on her Faceless men to rid you of me in your bed, little bird,” he rasped.

“No,” Sansa murmured as she stretched her neck for him to kiss. “She knows I would not forgive that, Sandor.”

He leaned back to look in her eyes again. “You wouldn’t, would you?” he said with realization.

“I love my sister, Sandor; but no one is dearer to me than you are,” she took his face in her soft hands, “you and our children.” Her sweet gaze grew somewhat sad now. “I just wish-“

“I know, little bird,” he replied swiftly, “it will only be a little longer.” He meant the moon tea. He took one hand in his as he caressed her hip and thigh with his other hand. “Do you know why soldiers practice every day, little bird?”

Her arched brows drew together curiously. “So that they are ready when their skills are truly needed,” she answered.

“Hm, that’s right,” he leaned in to kiss her neck again and whispered hoarsely: “Come to bed and let me practice my skills with you, little bird.”


	6. "Happy endings"

_…for some. A longer wait for others._

Sansa felt her tears coming as soon as the groom walked Arya’s mount into the yard. She bit her lip, knowing Arya would mock her for crying.

“I wish you safe journey, sister. I-“  She gave up on formality and threw her arms around her younger sister and hugged her tight. “Oh, Arya, I wish you could stay: you belong with us in Winterfell,” she told her.

“I knew you’d cry, Sansa,” she scoffed good-naturedly, “but I have to go, you know that. I offered myself as hostage to guarantee our family’s loyalty to Daenerys.” She rubbed Sansa’s shoulder affectionately. “And don’t worry: I am well-treated, and I’m even allowed to keep up my training.”

“I am pleased to hear it…but I’ll miss you, Arya.”

Arya smirked a half-smile. “I doubt Clegane will share your feelings,” she mocked.

Sansa lowered her eyes. “You certainly haven’t given him reason to,” she noted reproachfully.

“You’re probably right,” Arya admitted ruefully. “We’ll never get on, Sansa.”

“Not even for my sake, Arya?” Sansa entreated softly.

Arya weakened visibly. “Mayhaps…if I return to Winterfell. Someday,” she replied vaguely.

“Are you not gone yet, wolf-girl?” Sandor rasped behind her.

“Soon enough, dog.” Arya stared up at him as he came to stand beside Sansa. “Take care of my sister,” she warned.

“Buggering hells, what do you think I’ve been doing here?” he growled.

Arya opened her mouth and shut it again. He had taken care of Sansa; she could not grudge him that. She turned to her sister instead.

“I’m glad you gave on your silly romantic notions, Sansa,” she began harshly and then smiled. “But I’m also glad you got your happy ending…even if it is with Clegane.”

Sansa smiled back; she realized it was like to be the nicest thing Arya could bring herself to say.

“Thank you, Arya. I hope you have your happy ending as well…whatever that should be.”

Arya smiled secretly as she mounted her horse. “Mayhaps…someday,” was all she would say.

“Farewell, Arya,” Sansa called before bringing her hand to her lips to stop her sob. Her sister waved as she rode out the gate followed by her honor guard.

Sandor put a comforting arm around his wife.

“Oh, Sandor,” she whispered as he passed her a rumpled handkerchief.

“She’ll be alright, little bird,” he rasped now.

“I don’t want her to just be alright, Sandor; I want her to be happy,” Sansa replied wistfully as the last of the riders went out the gate.

Sandor though of the little wolf-bitch’s anger, so much like his own, when they were together in the Riverlands and the Vale. He knew that did not disappear easily, or even entirely; but he wanted to reassure Sansa.

“Mayhaps she will be…someday.”

 

 


	7. Blushes

Sandor shivered as he emptied his bladder outside the little abandoned crofter’s cottage where he and Sansa had spent the last three days. He hoped they could rest and feed off what he could hunt before continuing North to Winterfell. Or what was left of Winterfell.

_I’ll take you North, little bird, but I can’t promise what we’ll find there, only that I’ll keep you safe._

He entered quietly and removed his cloak and boots before walking to the hearth to take off the pot of melted snow that he had left warming. Sansa still slept, curled up under the furs of their bedrolls, and so he took the pot to the small stool across the room and set it down to wash. He wrung out the rag and worked quickly in the cold air, scrubbing his neck, arms, chest and belly. As he bent over to wash his legs, he turned instinctively in time to see Sansa, obviously awake, avert her eyes from him shyly.

_Buggering hells, can the girl still not look?_

“Did I wake you, little bird?”

She shook her head and blushed; even in the dim light of the fire he could tell.

“Do I still frighten you then?” he mocked and he saw her colour deepen.

“No,” she replied softly but still averted her eyes from his naked body. “But…forgive me; I should have given you privacy.”

He understood her shyness of course. This night had only been the second they had spent in each other’s arms. She had been a maid, despite her forced marriage to the Imp, and so he had tried so very much to be gentle and to give her some pleasure. She had blushed then too, though she gave herself willingly, when he’d helped undress her under the furs and kissed and caressed her as he had dreamed of doing for so long; and he’d tried to hush and soothe her when he’d broken her maidenhead and brought tears of pain to her eyes, even as she had clung to him tightly.

“I waited a long time for you to look at me, little bird,” he rasped firmly, “don’t ask my forgiveness now.”

She locked eyes with him now and sat up slowly, still wrapped in her furs. Timidly she let her eyes leave his and travel the long length of his body. He saw her redden again as they passed over his cock but she resisted turning away.

His mouth twitched. “Like what you see, little bird?”

His forwardness made her shy again and she ducked her head. “Yes,” she replied softly now and turned back to him. With trembling hands she let go of the furs and pushed them away from her body, leaving her naked in the firelight. “Do you…like what you see?”

_Seven fucking hells, yes!_

“Aye, little bird,” he rasped hoarsely now, “I like it very much.”

She flushed again, deeper than she had before; and he saw her lips tremble as she hesitated speaking.

“I- I love you, Sandor,” she told him, looking him straight in the face with softly pleading eyes.

Sandor’s heart stopped. He had wanted to protect her and keep her safe, and he’d failed once. He had wanted to protect her sweet innocence and then had taken its last vestiges for himself only the night before. He would not fail her now, for loving her was something he could never fail to do.

But he’d taken too long to answer, and her eyes had slipped away again and her flush was one of humiliation.

“Look at me.”

She did unhesitatingly.

He took a deep breath. “I love you, little bird.”

Sansa smiled tenderly now, her deep blue eyes brimming. He knew her colour was from happiness this time.

“Make room now,” he rasped as he stepped towards the hearth, “before we both perish from bloody cold.”


	8. Companionship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From tumblr prompt: "Sansa gives Sandor a puppy" For Wonderland/amplifyme and bighound-little bird

 

Sansa heard the stomping from far down the hall. She was writing a scroll to Lord Manderly, and though she knew the maester would be waiting to send it by raven she also knew that she would needs deal with whatever had sent her husband to her . The raven would needs wait.

He pushed into her solar so that the heavy wood and iron door banged against the stone wall. Still she continued to compose her missal until he spoke, which he did quite abruptly and rudely.

“Your damned  _gift_  has pissed on me…again!”

 

Sansa turned now and stifled a smile. The sight of her huge hulking husband with his fierce, scarred face with her gift tucked under his arm was too precious to ignore. Still she knew her amusement would only serve to make him more defensive.

 

“Surely, Sandor,” she began reasonably, “you have…trained dogs before?” The Cleganes were once kennel masters at Casterly Rock before they were raised up by their master.

 

“I wasn’t a damned kennel-keeper, little bird; we had our people to do that. I’m beneath you Starks, I bloody know that. Did you mean to remind me?”

 

Sansa rose to her feet immediately and hurried to reassure him.

 

“No, Sandor, of course not,” she soothed him by placing her slender hand on his massive arm. The wiggly puppy he held whined and so she put her other hand on its small head and stroked the soft fur. “I only…the kennel master said this one was neglected: the runt of the litter, and that he would need special care or else would surely die. I could give it to the children of course, but they are too young for the responsibility I fear; and I wanted….I wanted you to have something of your very own…now,” she said the last word softly.

 

Sansor’s face changed imperceptibly, a softening of his features that mayhaps only she recognized. _Gentle the rage inside him,_ she had once prayed; and her prayer had been answered. And he knew to what she referred when she had said _now._ His great courser Stranger had died this last moon’s turn after many years of long service to his master, and his passing had pained him deeply, she knew. The horse had been devoted and accepting of him as no other had been in her husband’s life; that is until they found each other again after many years apart. He looked down again at the small puppy, and placed his hand over hers on the animal’s head. The puppy wagged its little tail furiously.

 

“He likes you already, Sandor,” she murmured encouragingly.

 

His mouth twitched at the corner, and he raised his stormy grey eyes to hers again. “Aye, I expect he does…but I thought I had something of my own already,” he rasped low.

 

Sansa could not help smiling; but she also knew that, though she was his, she was also their children’s, and Rickon’s, and Winterfell’s, and the North’s. The puppy would be entirely his, in a way she could not be. It saddened her in a way, and so she would never say so to him.

 

“You do, Sandor; but I still wanted to make you this gift,” she replied swiftly and then turned the subject back to the small dog. “What …have you named him yet?” she asked him now.

 

“He’s for when you can’t be with me, is that it?" he surmises without her having to say. “Well, we’ve been apart before, and so there is only one name for him then,” he announces firmly.

 

Sansa raises her brow quizzically as Sandor takes the furry pup in both hands and raises its face to his.

 

“Digger.”

 


End file.
